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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830389">Scottish Toast</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt'>Monsterunderkilt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [36]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:46:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>512</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830389</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I make comfort food for Sir on a cold evening</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [36]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Scottish Toast</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the first cold December evening of the year, I decide that breakfast for dinner is warranted. The Manse is quiet, but I suspect it won’t be for long, so I pop into the kitchen and slice up some challah and mix up some eggs.As soon as I get the oil in the fry pan just right, I hear the front door open.</p><p> </p><p>“Anyone home?”</p><p> </p><p>“In the kitchen, Sir!”</p><p> </p><p>I quickly dunk some bread in the eggs and cinnamon and place them carefully in the pan when Ken comes in, unwrapping the giant scarf around his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“It certainly cooled down like quicksilver today!” Ken says, rubbing his hands together. “Not at all what you’re used to.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s why I’m making a cozy dinner tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>He steps close, peeking over my shoulder and taking a sniff. “Mmmmm... is that French toast?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know it.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you’re <em>deep-frying</em> it,” he says, resting his hands on my hips. “What are you Scottish now?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s shallow-frying and it’s my grandpa’s method and it’s the best method,” I say, flipping the toasts so they bubble on the other side. “I hate all those flaccid wet wonderbread ones they make in restaurants.”</p><p> </p><p>Ken hugs my middle and buries his nose in the hair behind my ear, purring. “Oh, limp bread gets the Missus all <em>rrriled</em> up.”</p><p> </p><p>I giggle a little and poke at the toasts. “Why do you trill your Rs so much?” It’s fucking adorable and he knows it tickles me to the bone.</p><p> </p><p>“Arrround the rrrrocks the rrrugged rrrascal rrran,” he says, quoting the dialect coach from <em>Singing in the Rain</em>. “Perhaps that’s just me being Scottish as well.”</p><p> </p><p>I laugh and quickly get the toasts out of the oil and onto a paper towel, then put down the spatula and spin around in his embrace. His smile slowly stretches across his face and I reward his irresistible mug with a kiss. He hugs me tighter, enveloping me in the sweet earthy vetiver notes of his natural scent, and I just wish I could inhale it for more than a few seconds at a time.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re nice and warm,” he whispers, giving my bum a tiny squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>I squeeze his bum back. “<em>After</em> dinner.”</p><p> </p><p>He lets go instantly and snaps a little salute. He turns and goes to grab the maple syrup out of the fridge, then gets plates, cutlery, and napkins to set the table. I place the pile of toasts and two mugs of tea on a tray and carry them over, watching his eyes grow narrow and sultry as he focusses on the food I set down before him. I wink at him as we serve ourselves.</p><p> </p><p>Ken pours a modest drizzle of syrup on his, then cuts into the crispy crust. He takes a bite, and lets out a little moan of pleasure, savoring that first warm morsel. “Oh, darling... your grandad was a genius.”</p><p> </p><p>I take a sip of tea and nod. “That’s the Italian in him.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you... you put crack in this, didn’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nutmeg.”</p><p> </p><p>“So close.”</p>
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